


kneel

by meritmut



Series: sifki au verse [5]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Coitus Interruptus, F/M, Oral Sex, using sex as a weapon what
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-01
Updated: 2012-10-01
Packaged: 2017-11-15 09:47:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/525945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meritmut/pseuds/meritmut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I'm not particularly fond of the idea of Sif doing this, but it was prompted and I thought perhaps if she were 'punishing' Loki, she wouldn't be averse. Their relationship is a power play, after all.</p><p>Also, she is in charge. Completely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	kneel

Little about Loki is certain. That, she knows better than most.

Not  _all_  - she wouldn’t presume - but most. In his unpredictability he can be almost, well, _predictable_ , at times, and never more so than where she is concerned, but lately he’s become so capricious and irritable that his brother (she cares not that his skin may glimmer cobalt and his eyes flash scarlet beneath the old glamour: Loki and Thor are brothers and neither blood nor name will change that in her estimation) has voiced concern over his behaviour. She reassures Thor, promises him that he will be the first to know if Loki does transgress again.

She’s wrong, of course. The entire court suffers the lash of the Liartongue before the crown prince can intervene, a peacemaking feast in the icy realm of the frost giants disrupted by foul insults and dire accusations hurled at anyone who dares speak against Loki and his bitterness.

Sif is one of the last to brave his cruelty, holding back for fear of provoking him further, but when Thor arrives to salvage what might be saved from the night, she then has to brave Loki’s anger in all its bitter force.

As ever, he sneers when she moves to Thor's side, the warrior maid sides with the golden prince.

As ever, Sif responds, unperturbed, Loki proves himself unworthy of allies. She’ll not endure him; not like this, and he’s running out of second chances with the Allfather too.

He knows this already. He’s no fool.

 _Prove it,_ returns Sif. Words are aimed and words are parried between them and for a moment it’s like it always was: a battleground with no losers. But this is not childhood and they can spar this way no longer. There is too much to lose, too much they do not yet know can be lost.

Her voice warms the space between them, the angry lines of her face wreathed in a fine haze, softened by the fine silver mist of her breath made visible in the frozen air within the hall. Her gown, a shimmering confection of wintry blue woven with threads of silver to catch and reflect any light thrown its way, gilds her in the icy moonlight of this polar world, but in front of the great hearth she stands haloed and shadowed by flame. He likes it. To him she will always be lovely, and tonight look particularly enchanting - even if she is glaring coldly at him, but she could be wearing a robe spun from the holy breath of Yggdrasil Herself and he’d still prefer her sweat-streaked and smiling after a war well-fought and won. That smile she has for him alone, part-gratitude, part-challenge.

_You knew I could do it. Can’t I do it? I’ll show you._

The gown doesn’t last long when they return to Asgard, falling away beneath his hands as he bends to kiss her and she, ever the violent partner in this dance of theirs, pushes him back into the post of the bed, _his_ bed, and draws away again to look at him for a moment.

And when the moment passes, with it going her anger and much of his bitterness, for when they are alone there is no need to play at masks anymore, she smiles - not quite the sweet smile he’d like but a smile full of promise, and progress - until Loki dips his head to divert her mouth for better purposes. Under his touch her skin prickles and flushes pink with more than his innate chill. Marking with her own traitorous blush the path his fingers take as they skim around over her hips and dig into her softer flesh, he draws from her a gasp that's part-sigh and wholly indecent. She’s flush against him now, bare and beautiful and burning brighter than the cosmos itself in a chamber so dimly-lit as this one. How he ever won her regard, he'll never know, but for all his show of repentance after his many sins he'd do it all again to never lose it. 

He takes her mouth again, nips at her lower lip and groans as she rocks delightfully against him. She does so love it, when he plays teeth and tongue with the most vulnerable parts of her.

The sweetest parts, lips and earlobes and the curving line of her throat, laid bare his tender, teasing ministrations. The god of mischief likes his games but he  _loves_ to watch Sif move helpless and undone beneath him, and for that he knows the simplest tricks are all he needs.

His eyes find the stars flickering in her own amber irises as she moves to rest her hands on his shoulders and consider him once more, wondering for not the first time, or the thousandth, how it came to be that she stands here now. How she can forgive him, time and time again, though she never forgets. 

Nor, she supposes, does she let him get away without chastisement, and the thought brings her a little consolation. It brings her back to present concerns, too, and a dark idea births in some little-used corner of her mind. She has no skill at this, but she thinks she could do enough. Loki's clothes are discarded almost before he even realises she’s on her knees before him - Sif the supplicant, a rare sight that drives his boundless imagination wild. She teases him with that wicked mouth of hers, running her tongue down his length until he shudders and curses, taking him in as far as she can and sliding him out again with just the faintest threat of bite to send him over the edge.

He hangs on, though, doesn’t quite go over yet.

When Sif kneels, Loki prays.

Her tongue traces mischief over him, so skilfully as if she’d drawn it from his own trickster mind with her mesmeric kisses, stealing magic from the master to turn it back on him. Her eyes glimmer up at him through the darkness and he realises that this merciless torment is, as ever, a particularly cruel form of punishment for his behaviour earlier. Stars dance behind his unfocussed retinas and silver fire sings through his frostbitten veins as Loki decides, with a last flicker of lucidity, that no crime of his could ever be deserving of the retributions Sif’s mouth can contrive.

But then, at the very moment his eyes clench shut and his fingers move to knot in the tangles of her hair...she stops. 

Moves, leans back and away, grinning darkly up at him, and rises to her feet. A satisfied smile plays across her lips - though that makes only one of them. 

Dimly Loki realises that he has been played. He has been caught, quite neatly, in the net of her guile, made vulnerable and left hanging like a spider in a gale. _How unlike her_ , he thinks, more amused than frustrated at the loss of sensation, and then, _but how utterly, calculatedly, perfectly Sif._

Weak-limbed and hazy-eyed, he takes her by the elbow and pulls her close again. Kisses the corners of her red mouth lightly, cups her jaw in his hands and feels her sigh. All things considered, it's probably punishment enough.

But Sif is a woman of principle, of stubbornness and pride, and she promised her liege she would see the trespasser suitably chastised. Ignoring Loki's exclamation of protest as she steps away from him and scoops up her gown from where they'd left it pooled on the floor, she repeats to herself that if this is the only way he learns, then so be it. Everyone has their price, and everyone their weakness. Part of what's gotten her this far in life is knowing where to find it and how to weaponise it. 

So she departs, leaving Loki sitting on the edge of his bed with a look of pure abandoned shock on his face and no doubt some petty revenge bubbling in his mind already, but not without a farewell. 

“Another night, Silvertongue,” she calls over her shoulder, inwardly delighting in that expression of outrage, "there's games yet to play, for you and I."


End file.
